Home Sweet Home

It smells of hot asphalt, spilled gin, and something that ended long ago but still won't let go. New York summer, when phone calls happen not because they need to, but simply because it's boring and too quiet. It seems like everything has been said, but the tongue still reaches for old words, like fingers reaching for a bruise that won't heal.

There is no drama here - just a slight weariness and the recognition that the past will still dial your number, no matter how far away you've gone. Everything comes back: smells, gestures, the unspoken between the lines. It's just that sometimes the evening is too long not to remember who it was with that it was once ‘too hot’ with.